


Shorts Season

by KissTheBoy7



Category: Rent - Larson
Genre: Awkwardness, M/M, Sexual Humor, Sexual Tension, Teen Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-02
Updated: 2012-10-02
Packaged: 2017-11-15 12:21:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/527259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KissTheBoy7/pseuds/KissTheBoy7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the summer of eighty-four and Mark, despite his complete lack of sexual experience, is fairly certain his best friend is trying to tempt him into bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shorts Season

"You don't have to eat it like a porn star, you know," Mark stammered, crossing his legs for about the sixteenth time that day. Despite his best efforts his eyes kept straying to his friend's lips, wrapped around the frozen treat, mouth sliding down around it and taking it in to the stick before pulling back and releasing it with a 'pop!'

It was really about time he said something, before his erection actually broke his zipper.

Roger just smirked, feigning innocence as he poked out his crimson-stained tongue. "Where's the fun in that?"

The two of them were lounging on the porch swing on Mark's back deck, observing the little ripples the breeze made on the surface of the water in the pool. So far, the summer had been _perfect_ \- too perfect, actually, so Roger had made it his job to ruin it for his poor, meek, closeted friend.

Well, that was Mark's theory anyways. And when it came to Roger, he was usually right.

They were seventeen with just one year left before they could pack up and head out, hit the road and never come back to this dinky Jewish dust trap of a town. No more parents or teachers or curfews or homework- well, homework for Mark, unless Roger really did manage to convince him to drop out and move with him to the city like he's been hinting at. Nevertheless, freedom was painfully close at hand and this was, conceivably, their last summer together.

"Don't be a pussy, man- oh. I'm sorry. I forgot you don't like those," he simpered, licking another stripe up the side of his Popsicle exaggeratedly. Mark fought back a frustrated whimper. It seemed like Roger had been torturing him endlessly since he'd managed to stutter out his meticulously crafted "coming out" speech to his best friend, and in fact the notion wasn't inconceivable. Roger was a right bastard when he wanted to be. (Which was most of the time.)

"Fuck you," the bespectacled boy sighed, pushing his glasses back up his nose. Perspiration couldn't be helped in ninety plus degree weather, and they kept sliding down. He had to be the only teenager he knew that preferred blizzards to this kind of glaring heat, but he couldn't help it- Mark was a scarves and mittens kind of guy. He didn't like summer for obvious reasons.

First of all, he was expected- like all men, which he considers a double standard really- to shed his shirt at the first inkling of a sunny day. And he didn't enjoy blinding innocent passerby with his frighteningly pale skin in the sunlight.

Second, he wasn't in the best shape. Not to say that he was fat, because Mark was at least five pounds _under_ weight and had been for as far back as he could remember. But he wasn't all ripped and muscular like most of the male population of Scarsdale High. He was just _skinny_ and he couldn't help it. Not all men were designed for throwing a ball or tackling each other into the mud. He was exhibit A.

And, most importantly, third: Mark was not at all as subtle as he would like to think. He had the misfortune of being what he assumed was the only gay kid in town, or at least who knew they were, and it was very, very hard not to stare when there were sculpted specimens jogging around in nothing but damp swim trunks that clung to their thighs, hair windswept and bodies glistening.

Or, you know, Roger and his Popsicle, which he was currently using to demonstrate what Mark imagined was probably the best blowjob he could possibly imagine.

"Maybe I'll let you," the other boy laughed in response, snapping him out of his brooding. It was odd for Mark to be brooding- after all, that was Roger's thing- but he seemed to be enjoying himself too much to comment on it. "Just say the magic words-"

"And what are the magic words?" Mark deadpanned, giving him a look that clearly stated he already knew. Roger cheerfully repeated them anyways, flicking the tip of the cherry Popsicle with his tongue as he put on his best falsetto.

"Oh, Roger, _take_ me! Make me yours!"

"You wish," Mark snorted quietly, heart throbbing in his chest. Yes, Mark also had the misfortune of being completely and utterly under Roger's spell, and had been since he was probably nine years old and learned about _why_ his penis did that funny thing in his pants when walked in on a movie his parents hadn't meant for him to see.

It may have been a thousand kinds of horribly clichéd, but Roger was his boy next door. Attractive and perfect and sensitive, and so oblivious it was painful to watch them interact.

Well, he _had_ been oblivious. But ever since he'd come out, Mark had had the distinct feeling that that was no longer the case.

"Maybe I do." Roger's green eyes were glinting with mischief, and Mark almost forgot to breathe. _Damn_ Roger for being so unintentionally attractive. His bleached hair was overgrown, a blatant rebellion against his mother's screeches that he looked like a wild animal, like a punk, and she was going to take hedge clippers to his hair while he was asleep. It was also still wet from their most recent swimming expedition, clinging to his forehead and dripping down his neck, and he kept brushing it out of his eyes in a gesture that, for some reason, Mark found incredibly arousing.

It might just be that Mark was a teenaged boy with teenaged hormones and all seventeen years of him found _everything_ Roger did, said or put on (or took off) his body incredibly arousing.

But for the moment, it was probably best to keep Roger's ego in check.

"If you want me so bad then take me, stud." Mark smirked, a learned expression- learned from Roger, actually, although he had never managed to duplicate it correctly- and leaned into his friend's shoulder, nudging it with his own. One of the dwindling number of reasons that he obstinately refused to believe that Roger might, actually, want him in his bed was that, ever since he'd come out, Roger had been ridiculously easy to get off of his back. All he had to do was lean too close, make one suggestive comment, and Roger would be running for the hills.

Actually, it might be the only reason left, because the more he thought about them the more the other ones seemed really stupid and easily disregarded.

For example, did it matter so much that they were best friends? If anything, that only increased their chances of having a successful relationship.

And was Roger honestly going to care that he didn't have soccer practice after school, or football, or whatever other ridiculous testosterone-fueled activity his mother tried to talk him into this year? Did he honestly care what Mark looked like as long as he was the same person?

Mark realized belatedly that he was straying from the subject of sex into the dangerous romantic territory he had been trying to steer clear of for months so as not to get his hopes up, and he shook his head distractedly before realizing that Roger hadn't moved away.

He was right there, eyes sparkling devilishly in the sunlight, so close that Mark could kiss him and would probably try if he weren't extremely certain he'd be dumped on his ass before he could even slip any tongue in.

"I could if I wanted," he shrugs casually, sucking the tip of his Popsicle back into his mouth in a way that makes Mark's cock throb just watching it. God, Roger had the most perfect mouth… It wasn't fair that someone who, if possible, did even _less_ exercise than Mark on a regular basis should have such an amazing body. Mark blamed it on his freaky metabolism.

He occupied himself with memories of watching Roger stuff his face full of junk while they holed up in his room with the Nintendo, mostly to distract himself from Roger's words and the way he was sucking on that Popsicle like he expected it to cum in his mouth.

Roger _could_ have him if he wanted to.

Obviously he didn't, though, because they were home alone together almost every day this summer and nothing had happened.

"I'd love to see you try to seduce me, Rog," he forced himself to snort, rolling his eyes. He wondered if he was getting to be any better of a liar this summer, with all of the unwanted arousal he'd been trying his best to conceal. In nothing but a t-shirt and a pair of drying swim trunks it was probably hard to miss the way his lap was tented, but he was doing his best. At the very least Roger had yet to make fun of him for it.

"You think I couldn't?" Roger's eyebrows climbed into his hair as he released the Popsicle from his mouth again. The scarlet juices had begun to flow down the stick now in the sweltering heat, sticking his fingers together, but either he didn't notice or he didn't care. He looked like he wanted to laugh. "Cohen, I am a sex _God_."

"Sure you are, Roger. Sure you are." Mark appeased. He knew, of course, that Roger was actually just as much of a virgin as he was. That didn't mean he had to hurt his pride by coming out and saying it. Despite the fact that girls had been flocking around him from the moment he'd hit puberty and discovered that eyeliner was, in fact, exactly what he needed to make his pretty eyes pop no matter what his dad said on the matter, Roger had never given any of them a second glance.

This in itself was enough to make butterflies erupt in Mark's stomach, hope that he really didn't want to have to deal with. But still…

Maybe he and Roger were more similar than he'd first thought?

Roger pouted, blissfully unaware of Mark's exhausting internal debate. He leaned closer, his lips hardly an inch from his friends, shiny and red. He was freshly shaven; unlike Mark, he actually owned and regularly had to use a razor if he didn't want to look like a scruffy hitchhiker. His breath was sweet as it fanned across Mark's face, dizzyingly tempting. "You don't believe me?"

"I didn't say that," he pointed out, folding his arms over his clothed chest and refusing to give in despite his heart's insistent battering of his ribcage. "I agreed with you."

"But you don't think I'm sexy." Roger clutched at his own bare chest and Mark had to physically force his eyes away from his inexplicably erect nipples. He swallowed, knuckles white around his own biceps as he restrained himself with _much_ difficulty from grabbing Roger and pulling him forcibly on top of him. "You wound me."

"Go put a shirt on," Mark sighed, another breeze sweeping the refreshing scent of chlorine to his nose and clearing his head, just a little.

Control, he reminded himself. Control was key. If he scared Roger off then he'd be stuck home alone with his sister's cat and the silence for the rest of the summer, or until Roger came scampering back to pretend nothing had happened- which could take anywhere between one day and two weeks. Either way, boredom was not an exciting prospect. Neither was anxiety.

"You like me better naked." The grin returned, wide and unrestrained and positively evil if only because it made Mark want to wrap his arms around his neck and shove his tongue down his throat.

It's possible that he'd wanted to do that anyways… just to a lesser degree.

"Please." He wasn't quite as convincing as he would have liked, voice wavering subtly, and Roger chose that moment to be annoyingly perceptive. He narrowed his eyes and leaned in closer; Mark, alarmed and cursing himself for being so blatant about his pathetic infatuation, leaned away but it was no use. His back hit the arm of the swing and suddenly there was Roger, hovering over him teasingly, their hips just barely brushing- enough to drive Mark crazy panicking about the possibility of Roger discovering how achingly hard he was- and his nose bumped with Mark's. The smaller boy felt his blue eyes widen incredulously, shocked and unable to even think of protesting. Roger just smirked.

"Please _what?_ " he taunted, but Mark's reply got caught in his throat. His pulse was racing, his hormones in a frenzy, and he was almost one hundred percent sure at this point that he was blushing like a tomato but he couldn't bring himself to be embarrassed about it. There were more pressing matters to attend.

Like the fact that Roger was mostly naked and partially wet.

Like the fact that his tongue probably tasted like cherries, and he _knew_ that was Mark's favorite flavor.

Like the fact that they were completely, utterly alone for at least a few more hours.

Like the fact that he was going to cum in his pants if Roger used that husky, "I-wanna-fuck-you" voice on him again.

"Um- ummm-" Mark stammered, trying to buy himself some time to reorganize his scrambled thoughts before his glasses started fogging up from his overheating brain. Roger just laughed, and the light pressure was gone as suddenly as it had come, allowing Mark to sit up again and take a deep, steadying breath. He seemed amused with the reaction he'd drawn from his unsuspecting friend, tilting his head and simpering.

"Is Marky all hot and bothered now?" Mark couldn't possibly blush any harder, but he was gripped by a sudden wave of terror before Roger shook his head and grinned again. "No worries, I know I'm irresistible… You just can't help yourself, huh?" His laughter was contagious, and Mark followed his example weakly, still catching his breath.

"Yeah…" he mumbled, smiling down at himself and pressing a hand to his heart briefly, feeling it thunder beneath his overheated skin. Suddenly, any extra layers- even the shirt currently protecting him from hypothetical ridicule- seemed outrageous. Roger's little stunt had to have put his temperature somewhere over a hundred.

Just as he was considering shrugging it off, Roger be damned, the other boy's attention was diverted back to the pool. "Hey, you wanna get back in? It's fucking hot out here."

"We have air conditioning…" Mark shrugged. One of the benefits of having a very stereotypically Jewish family was that his father, the accountant, made pretty big bucks- enough to afford this enormous house and the pool and the air conditioning and his mother's walk-in closet. However, the pool was starting to look like an attractive alternative to sitting inside, especially since he had given up on feeling guilty about perving over his friend's naked body for the day- it was Roger's own fault, if he was going to tease. It was probably a lot cooler in the water…

Seeing Mark's speculative look, Roger hopped to his feet. "I'll race ya," he proposed, a persuasive edge to his voice. Mark started to protest the obvious danger of such an act but Roger was already running, across the deck and down the stairs.

"Roger, the grass is wet-!" He warned, getting to his feet warily. Sure enough, before he could make it the short distance to the pool ladder Roger's foot went slipping out from under him and he ended up on his back with a loud curse, head thumping on the ground.

"Shitfuckasshole-!" Mark could hardly make out the individual swears, just one continuous stream of profanity that made his lips curve up in an exasperated smile as, at a reasonable rate, he descended the steps and crouched down beside his fallen friend. Roger's face was twisted in aggravation as he sat up, head in his hands, but he didn't look like he'd hurt himself too badly. Mark patted his shoulder just to be sure.

"Maybe you should listen to me once in a while." Roger glared balefully up at him as he struggled to his feet, latching onto Mark's arm for balance, and rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, right. I'm gonna listen to the scrawny albino queer," he sneered, not in an unfriendly way. Mark was, by now, used to his friend's blunt way of putting things and instead of exacerbating his self-esteem issues it just made him laugh.

"With the weird hair," he finished, reaching up to tug at a strand a strawberry-blonde lock. In the sunlight, he knew, he probably looked even blonder than usual; by winter he would be a redhead again. Roger had always been fascinated by this to no end, once even spending a good hour playing with Mark's hair as the other boy sat dutifully still, examining each strand trying to figure out how the whole thing worked.

Roger nodded his approval, already swerving back towards the pool stairs. Mark trailed along behind him in bemusement like a baby duck. He tried not to watch Roger's ass as he ascended them, but not very hard; he blushed when Roger reached the top and twisted around to look at him, immediately averting his eyes.

"Watch," he instructed, pointing a finger down at his friend. Mark nodded and sighed, folding his arms. He was reminded once again of his unnecessary extra layer when the his t-shirt stuck uncomfortably to his sweaty underarms and immediately struggled his way out of it, folding it neatly and placing it on the ground just outside of the invisible line that he imagined was the splash zone.

He had to admit, as Roger took bent into a perfect diving stance, that he sort of missed the days of Roger's stint with the swim team. His mother and Mark's had conspired to force them into sports together and, on the grounds that swimming wasn't technically a sport, they had agreed. Luckily for Mark he had promptly broken his ankle falling down the stairs and Roger had grumpily spent the rest of the school year attending meets and practices on his own, and being generally whiny about it.

Not that he really had any right to complain, since it had been he who had pushed Mark in the first place.

That had been back in eighth grade, when Mark was just beginning to grasp his attraction to men and, specifically, his best friend. He might have started out watching every practice because he had nowhere better to be, but he had kept it up because of all of the naked boys.

Perhaps it was a good thing that he hadn't been on the team. Then he would have had to wear the uniform, and, well… It would be a challenge to hide a hard on in a Speedo.

Roger hadn't touched another sign-up form since then, but perhaps that was where his love for swimming had been born. He still remembered everything they'd taught him, in any case, and the muscle he'd accumulated had never seemed to wither away. As he dove into the water, Mark was struck by how graceful he was in the water as opposed to his fumbling on land.

Then his head broke the surface and he gasped, laughing. "Jesus! Mark, it's gotta be seventy in here- come on!" Without warning a deluge of water spattered on Mark's head, and he yelped as the icy droplets hit his overheated skin.

"Roger!" Chewing his lip, he debated on where to leave his glasses for a half a second before he took them off and placed them carefully on top of his folded shirt in the grass. He padded cautiously to the ladder, wishing he weren't quite so blind without them. "It's the same temperature as it was earlier! You don't have to splash me."

He reached the top of the ladder and another, less unexpected splash hit him in the chest, soaking his shorts all over again. Roger's laughter echoed across the water. "Yeah I do."

"That's it." Mark gave up on gingerly dipping his feet into the water, attempting to get used to the sudden drop in temperature, and took a deep breath before jumping in. The shock of the arctic water was quickly overwhelmed by the gratification he felt now that he wasn't sweating and panting like a dog in the heat. He reared back to take a gulp of air and instead received a mouthful of water, Roger's maniacal laughter ringing closer now.

"Asshole!" he choked, spluttering and lunging at him. Normally he didn't stoop quite to Roger's level, but for once he allowed his teenagerism to take over, splashing him back. It quickly turned into an all-out war, and Mark was fairly certain that at least half of the pool water must have ended up on the ground. The pool was five and a half feet deep, so he had to tread water to keep his mouth above the slowly calming waves, shaking with laughter as they finally called it a truce.

Both boys were breathing hard, floating less than a foot from each other, when Roger suddenly lit up with another bout of mischief that Mark wasn't sure he was prepared for yet. "Hey. Wanna see who can hold their breath the longest?" he gasped between pants, grinning. Mark quickly shook his head.

"God, no. You're just going to hold me under like last time."

"You wanna bet?" He looked crestfallen, and Mark suddenly felt irrationally guilty denying his friend his fun. Rolling his eyes, he gave in.

"Fine… But I swear to God, Roger, if you-"

"I'm not gonna! Come on man, I deserve a little trust. You let me sleep in your bed."

Mark tried not to think about that too hard, cheeks warming despite the cool water, and nodded. "Fine. On three?"

"One… Two… Three!" Roger crowed immediately, ducking under the water. Mark hurried to follow his example, squeezing his eyes shut- chlorine really did not agree with him.

It was a few moments before his lungs began to burn, and he knew that he was going to lose anyways. He had half a mind to resurface when he found his jaw suddenly gripped by a familiar pair of guitar calloused hands, pulled roughly forward.

The lips against his were _not_ familiar, but as quick as it was Mark did his best to memorize them. The boys erupted to the surface again, inches apart, and Mark's eyes popped open to peer at Roger in puzzled astonishment.

"What was that?!"

"What was what?" If he hadn't known him so well, Mark would almost have believed the innocent look Roger pulled then. As it was he cuffed him on the arm, not to be deterred, his other hand flailing wildly.

"That!" He gestured to his lips, stammering, unable to get the words out fast enough. "You- what- what were you-?!"

"M'allowed, I'm your best friend," he shrugged, a bit too quickly. It was as though he'd practiced the response. Mark swallowed, hard, his swim trunks a bit too tight as he stared at his friend in a whole new light.

Did he really just…?

But there's no way he could have made that up, and Roger is biting his lip guiltily, and he realizes all at once that he's going to have to just ignore it or face the wrath of Roger's awkward face for the rest of the night.

"… D'you wanna go inside?" he asked, forcing himself to change the subject. The relief in Roger's eyes is tangible and that placates him- for the moment. At least he wasn't running off.

He would get his explanation today if it was the last thing he did.

"Nah," Roger was saying, shaking his head, water droplets spraying from his wet hair. "We just got in!"

In the end they end up staying in the pool for another half an hour before it begins to feel like the sun is actually frying them, directly overhead, and they agree that it's about time to go in for lunch and appease their growling stomachs. The entire time they're climbing out and toweling off, Mark replacing his shirt and his glasses where they belong, there's an odd clenching feeling in his gut.

The butterflies must have died, because he can't feel them anymore. All he can see, hear, smell, taste is Roger. He wishes that he'd been more prepared for their underwater kiss because he'd really love to have tasted that Popsicle secondhand.

But, in true Mark fashion, he manages to keep the admittedly obsessive desire to himself as they reenter the house. He shivers involuntarily, goose bumps rising in response to the blast of cold air, and he quickly shuts the door behind Roger before wrapping the towel tighter around himself.

"So, d'you wanna order a pizza or something?" he asks, eying the money his mother had left them on the table for exactly this situation. It was amazing that she still trusted Roger enough to leave money lying out after the last time; the tongue ring had, actually, been a lot hotter than Mark had expected it to be but Mrs. Davis had quickly put an end to "that nonsense" and confiscated it.

Roger had an odd expression on his face; he glanced around the empty dining room as if he was expecting one of Mark's parents or possibly his sister to pop out and catch him in the act, of what he couldn't decipher. "Ah- sure, man, whatever you want."

Licking his lips, Mark just shrugged and picked up the phone, counting the bills on the counter. With two ravenous teenaged boys, it was perfectly reasonable to order a large pizza- especially when one of them was Roger. He dialed the familiar number and ordered absently, watching as Roger paced restlessly around the table and then into the kitchen and back.

What was he doing? More importantly- what was he thinking about?

With the delivery order made he set the phone back down into the receiver and tilted his head, curious. "Hey, Rog."

His head snapped up, that guilty look returning. "Yeah?"

"Can I ask you something?"

"You don't have to ask, Mark, I'll gladly accept that blowjob," he grinned, but it looked slightly strained. As he paced past the refrigerator he abruptly swerved, pulling the freezer door open and grabbing another Popsicle out of the box. Mark tried not to wince. He didn't know how many Popsicles he could possibly watch Roger eat without begging.

"Give me one good reason I would want to blow you," he says instead, almost a challenge, shifting and subtly rearranging his erection. Roger's eyes glow and he realizes this may have been a mistake.

The taller boy is gleeful, as though this was the opening he was looking for. "Tis the season," he purrs, approaching Mark in a way that makes him back into the counter, eyes getting big behind his glasses. His heart rate picks up again as Roger continues, bracing his arms on either side of Mark's waist, too close, too close- "Summer is your favorite season, isn't it Marky?"

Confused, Mark furrowed his eyebrows. "What- My favorite season is winter, Roger. You know that."

"But in the winter I'm not this naked all the time." Their hips are suddenly pressed together and Mark recognizes this as one of Roger's impulse decisions, the kind that lead to the tongue ring thing and his new bleached hair and that time he'd streaked through the mall while Mark filmed the whole thing. He's squeaking, though, unable to translate his thoughts into words when the object of his affection is so dangerously close to figuring out that's what he is. "And I don't get to sleep in your bed every night…"

"Roger-" he manages, voice embarrassingly raw, shuddering as Roger presses their chests together. He can't believe it. He can't. Believe. It. But Roger has already pressed their lips back together, harder than the first time, nipping at his lower lip and drawing a whimper from his friend.

Mark no longer cares about the answers to his questions- _why when who how what?!-_ as long as Roger never, ever stops kissing him. His hands automatically fly up into Roger's hair, tugging him closer on instinct, gasping into his mouth and providing prime opportunity for Roger to slip his tongue inside, much more clumsily than Mark had always fantasized but God damn, he'll _take it._

Suddenly, despite the air conditioning and the fact that they're both dripping onto the hardwood, everything is hot again and Mark can vaguely hear one of them moaning. He thinks it might be him.

Oh well. Cat's out of the bag now anyways.

By the time they've broken apart Mark has already composed a verbal response. It comes out more like "guhh", though, and he has to try again.

"Can you- can you read my _mind?"_ he demands, eyes wild, euphoria blooming in his chest before he even has his answer. He figures that he might as well go all out now, now that Roger has effectively wrecked any chance he might have had of being _just friends_ with Roger ever again. Roger looks just as breathless as he is, which stands to reason, but somehow in his imagination Roger really is some kind of porn star, and it's possible that Popsicle has given him unrealistic expectations.

"What do you mean?" There's an uncertain edge to Roger's voice now, and although he hasn't moved away in the slightest he looks afraid- maybe that Mark is going to run away. Puh. As if he could. As if he _wanted_ to.

Not after that kiss.

"I mean- I mean- earlier. With the Popsicle. And the pool. And the summer-" He's aware that he's no longer entirely coherent and doesn't care, fumbling for the words, any words, to make Roger understand what he's trying to say. "I mean-"

A look of incredible relief has come over Roger's face. Mark stops trying to think of the right words, stops trying to think at all, when he leans back in and tentatively brushes their lips together again. It's the most careful gesture he's ever seen Roger make and he'd be more touched if his dick weren't hard enough to rip a hole in the front of his swim trunks. He toys with the hair at the nape of Roger's neck, just reveling in the sensations.

"Do you still want me to sleep over?" Startled, Mark looks back up into his friend's eyes at the sound of his husky voice. It's the same sort of voice he'd used on him earlier, the one that Mark had assumed he was teasing him with, and he nods before even considering it. He has no reason _not_ to want Roger over, unless of course Roger has managed to scare him _self_ away without Mark's help.

It's not really an uncommon occurrence. Mark is going to be really pissed, though, if he leaves now.

"Oh. Good." The taller boy presses his face abruptly to Mark's hair and wraps his arms around his waist loosely, almost as though they're dancing. Mark's flush spreads down his body and he's very, very glad all of a sudden that he has a shirt on. He's already embarrassed himself plenty today, and Roger doesn't need any more ammunition. It's several long, not unpleasant minutes before Mark hears Roger mumble anything else.

"You're going to have to walk me through the queer thing. I don't really know how it works." His uncertainty is adorable in a way that Mark had never even considered before. Sluggishly, it's beginning to dawn on him- the tightening in his gut worsening all the while, making his knees weak- that he might not be the only one with a little bit of a crush on his best friend.

Maybe he doesn't have to be the only gay kid in town. Maybe… Maybe they were friends for a reason. And maybe Roger might, just might, conceivably have feelings for him, too.

It wasn't like he was the most unlovable person in the world. Quirky, maybe. Out of shape, maybe. But that didn't mean they couldn't…

All at once he knows why Roger's been so insufferably annoying since he came out to him.

"Sorry, but neither do I," he breathed, the knowledge of Roger's reciprocated infatuation lifting a weight from his shoulders that he hadn't even been aware of. Roger tensed, but Mark smoothed his hands down his shoulders reassuringly. He leans in, mouth to the other boy's ear, badly tempted to flick his tongue out over the metal stud brushing his lip. "We can figure it out together, if you like."

It's funny how he knew Roger so well, for so long, and somehow managed to overlook this crucial bit of information. Maybe it was he all along that had thought himself unlovable.

Because Roger… Roger is a child at heart. He might be seventeen going on eighteen in a couple of months, but his mind works more like a six year olds'. It goes like this; little boys, they tease. They pull hair, they name-call, and they make the cute little girls pay attention to them whether they like it or not. And even though Mark had always showered Roger with more attention than he knew what to do with, just the sort he needed, he still felt the need to verify that he was in fact loved.

This time, the love he was looking for was of a different sort- but he'd still managed to draw the same reaction.

Their second kiss is slower but somehow more heated, lips moving together in a gradually more comfortable pattern of licks and nips and low moans. Mark has no qualms about sliding his hands around, down the smooth skin of Roger's back- he's hairy everywhere but there and Mark thinks this is hilarious, always teased him about it- just feeling him. He's all too aware that his isn't the only erection, now that he thinks about it, and their hips move minutely together as well.

Mark seriously hopes that his father was joking about installing cameras in the house after they got robbed last year, because this isn't exactly the way he'd meant to come out to his parents.

The thought is fleeting- it's hard to concentrate on parents, on _anything_ responsible, when Roger is here. When Roger is pressed against him. When he can taste the cherry on Roger's tongue. He would feel worse about being so unbearably horny, so eager to get past first base when they've only begun, if he wasn't male and wasn't seventeen and wasn't so completely, pathetically in love with the boy he'd only just realized noticed him.

It's the doorbell that breaks them apart, twenty minutes later. By then they're both panting and hard and their hands are down each other's pants, touching and exploring for the first time since they were very little children and didn't know that that sort of thing was taboo. Roger is visibly irritated with the pizza deliveryman that Mark opens the door for and pays with an unabashed grin, accepting the box, but his grumbling stomach soon erases any animosity he feels for anyone who might be feeding him.

"Fuck, man, I'm starving," he groaned eagerly, snatching a steaming piece as soon as Mark lifted the lid of the cardboard box. He doesn't seem to care that it burns his mouth. Mark has to stifle a girlish giggle, knowing that he'd never live it down, as he watches Roger scarf his food like a starved raccoon rummaging in the trash.

He had wondered whether or not things would change, now that this unspoken emotion had been conveyed. He had wondered if they would act different. If maybe their friendship was over now that their relationship had begun.

But of course, this was Roger and he was just being stupid. Mark pushes his glasses up his nose and picks up his own piece, daintily biting the tip off, and is dazzled by a blinding grin from Roger with a mouthful of cheese. He opened his mouth obnoxiously to show Mark the chewed up wad and the smaller boy mock grimaces.

"Ew. Roger, gross. Chew and swallow, I don't need to see anything in between," he complained, shaking his head. It was hard to actually be repulsed by _anything_ Roger did anymore. Or ever. All he can think of is those hands, those big, guitar-calloused hands currently wrapped around his pizza crust, wrapped around his cock.

The blush on his face must have alerted Roger because now he's smirking, cocking his head to the side smugly. "What about between the sheets?"

Mark could swear his face was on aflame, and he resisted the urge to reach up and touch it just to be sure he didn't need to go find the fire extinguisher.

" _After_ we eat, Roger," he manages to choke, looking away as quickly as possible to avoid the devilish look he's sure is flashing across Roger's face.

Suddenly, sleepovers have taken on a whole new meaning. As has summer.

_Tis the season…_

He was going to have to make the best of it, before school and shirts and cold New York weather ruined their fun… Oh, God damn it.

"Roger?"

"Hmm?" Satisfied with himself, Roger just gives him an amused look.

"I think I have a new favorite season." He blinks innocently for good measure, building up to the climax.

"I knew you couldn't resist my dashing good looks-" he begins, chuckling.

"Hey Roger?"

"Take me. Make me yours."

He grins, having known exactly what the effect of the words would be. Roger's eyes have bugged out, his jaw freezing mid-chew. Then his eyes slip down Mark's body and it's like a flash fire through his veins. Abruptly, he abandons his food and makes a detour to the bedroom.

Screw pizza- they could eat later.


End file.
